NEW YORK, December—.
After German philosophy and Hamilton's metaphysics, it is a great relief to have introduced into the family an entirely new element—a character the dissection of which is at once a novelty and a recreation. It is absolutely refreshing, and I find myself returning to my books with increased vigor after an encounter with that simple-hearted, unsophisticated, innocent-minded creature, our sister-in-law, Mrs. Wilford Cameron. Such pictures as Juno and I used to draw of the stately personage who was one day coming to us as Wilford's wife, and of whom even mother was to stand in awe. Alas! how hath our idol fallen! Tell it not in Gath, nor yet in Gotham! And still I rather like the little creature, who, the very first night, nearly choked mother to death, giving her lace streamers a most uncomfortable twitch, and actually kissing father—a thing I have not done since I can remember. But, then, with the exception of Will and Jamie, the Camerons are all a set of icicles, encased in a refrigerator at that. If we were not, we should thaw out, when Katy leans on us so affectionately and looks up at us so wistfully, as if pleading for our love. Wilford does wonders; he used to be so grave, so dignified and silent, that I never supposed he would bear having a wife meet him at the door with cooing and kisses, and climbing into his lap right before us all. Juno says it makes her sick, while mother is dreadfully shocked; and even Will sometimes seems annoyed, gently shoving her aside and telling her he is tired.
After all, it is a query in my mind whether it is not better to be like Katy than like Sybil Grandon, about whom Juno was mean enough to tell her the first day of her arrival. On the whole, I would rather be Katy, but better yet, would prefer remaining myself, Bell Cameron, the happy medium between the two extremes, of art perfected and nature in its primeval state, just as it existed among the Silverton hills. From my own standpoint, I can look on and criticise, giving my journal the benefit of my criticisms and conclusions.
Very pretty, but shockingly insipid, is Juno's verdict upon Mrs. Wilford, while mother says less, but looks a great deal more, especially when she talks about "my folks," as she did to Mrs. General Reynolds the very first time she called. Mother and Juno were so annoyed, while Will looked like a thundercloud, particularly when she spoke of Uncle Ephraim, saying so and so. He was better satisfied with Katy in Europe, where he was not known, than he is here, where he sees her with other people's eyes. One of his weaknesses is a too great reverence for the world's opinion, as held and expounded by our very fashionable mother, and as in a quiet kind of way she has arrayed herself against poor Katy, while Juno is more open in her acts and sayings. I predict that it will not be many months before he comes to the conclusion that he has made a mesalliance, a thing of which no Cameron was ever guilty.
I wonder if there is any truth in the rumor that Mrs. General Reynolds once taught a district school, and if she did, how much would that detract from the merits of her son, Lieutenant Bob. But what nonsense to be writing about him. Let me go back to Katy, who has no more idea of etiquette than Jamie in his wheel-chair. Still, there is something very attractive about her, and Mrs. General Reynolds took to her at once, petting her as she would a kitten, and laughing merrily at her naive speeches, as she called them—speeches which made Will turn black in the face, they betrayed so much of rustic life and breeding. I fancy that he has given Katy a few hints, and that she is beginning to be somewhat afraid of him, for she watches him constantly when she is talking, and she does not now slip her hand into his as she used to when guests are leaving and she stands at his side; neither is she quite so demonstrative when he comes up from the office at night, and there is a look upon her face which was not there when she came. They are taming her down, mother and Juno, and to-morrow they are actually going to commence a systematic course of training, preparatory to her _début_ into society, said _début_ to occur on the night of the ——, when Mrs. General Reynolds gives the party talked about so long. I was present when they met in solemn conclave to talk it over, mother asking Will if he had any objections to Juno's instructing his wife with regard to certain things of which she was ignorant. Will's forehead knit itself together at first, and I half hoped he would veto the whole proceedings, but after a moment he replied:
"No, providing Katy is willing. Her feelings must not be hurt."
"Certainly not," mother said. "Katy is a dear little creature, and we all love her very much, but that does not blind us to her deficiencies, and as we are anxious that she should fill that place in society which Mrs. Wilford Cameron ought to fill, it seems necessary to tone her down a little before her first appearance at a party."
To this Will assented, and then Juno went on to enumerate her deficiencies, which, as nearly as I can remember, are these: She laughs too much and too loud; is too enthusiastic over novelties, conducting as if she never saw anything before; has too much to say about Silverton and "my folks," quotes Uncle Ephraim and Sister Helen too often, and is even guilty at times of mentioning a certain Aunt Betsy, who must have floated with the Ark and snuffled the breezes of Ararat. She does not know how to enter, or cross, or leave a room properly, or receive an introduction; or, in short, do anything according to New York ideas as understood by the Camerons, etc.; she is to be taught—toned down, mother called it—dwelling upon her high spirits as something vulgar, if not absolutely wicked. How father would have sworn, for he calls her his little sunbeam, and says he never should have gained so fast if she had not come with her sunny face and lively, merry laugh to cheer his sickroom. Katy has a fast friend in him and Jamie. But mother and Juno—well, I shall be glad if they do not annihilate her altogether, and I am surprised that Will allows it. I wonder if Katy is really happy with us? She says she is, and is evidently delighted with New York life, clapping her hands when the invitation to Mrs. Reynolds' party was received, and running with it to Wilford as soon as he came home. It is her first big party, she says, she having never attended any except that little sociable in Boston, and those insipid schoolgirl affairs at the seminary. I may be conceited—Juno thinks I am—but really and truly, Bell Cameron's private opinion of herself is that at heart she is better than the rest of her family, and so I pity this little sister of ours, while at the same time I am exceedingly anxious to be present whenever Juno takes her in hand, for I like to see the fun. Were she at all bookish, I should avow myself her champion, and openly defend her; but she is not, and so I give her into the hands of the Philistines, hoping they will at least spare her hair and not worry her life out on that head. It is very becoming to her, and several young ladies have whispered their intention of trying its effect upon themselves, so that Katy may yet be a leader of the fashion.
_Bell's Diary Continued_.
Such fun as it was to see mother and Juno training Katy, showing her how to enter the parlor, how to arrange her dress, how to carry her hands and feet, and how to sit in a chair—Juno going through with the performance first, and then requesting Katy to imitate her, which I must say she did to perfection, even excelling her teacher, inasmuch as she is naturally very easy and graceful. Had I been Katy I should have rebelled, but she is far too sweet-tempered and anxious to please, while I half suspect that fear of my lord Wilford had something to do with it, for when the drill was over, she asked so earnestly if we thought he would be ashamed of her, and there were tears in her great blue eyes as she said it. Hang Wilford! Hang the whole of them! I am not sure but I shall espouse her cause myself, or else tell father, who will do it so much better.
Dec.—th.—Another drill, with Juno commanding officer, while the poor little private seemed completely worried out. This time there were open doors, but so absorbed were mother and Juno as not to hear the bell, and just as Juno was saying, "Now, imagine me Mrs. General Reynolds, to whom you are being presented," while Katy was bowing almost to the floor, who should appear but Mark Ray, stumbling square upon that ludicrous rehearsal, and of course bringing it to an end. No explanation was made, nor was any needed, for Mark's face showed that he understood it, and it was as much as he could do to keep from roaring with merriment; I am sure he pitied Katy, for his manner toward her was very affectionate and kind, and when once she left the room he complimented her highly, repeating many things he had heard in her praise from those who had seen her both in the street and here at home. Juno's face was like a thundercloud, for she was as much in love with Mark Ray as she was once with Dr. Grant, and is even jealous of his praise of Katy. Glad am I that I never yet saw the man who could make me jealous, or for whom I cared a pin. There's Bob Reynolds up at West Point. I suppose I do think his epaulettes very becoming to him, but his hair is too light and he cannot raise whiskers big enough to cast a shadow on the wall, while I know he looks with contempt upon females who write, even though their writings never see the light of day; thinks them strong-minded, self-willed, and all that. He is expected to be present at the party, but I shall not be. I had rather stay at home and finish that article entitled "Women of the Present Century," and suggested to my mind by my Sister Katy, who stands for the picture I am drawing of a pretty woman, with more heart than brains, contrasting her with such a one as Juno, her opposite extreme.
January 10.—The last time I wrote in my journal was just before the party, which is over now, the long-talked-of affair at which Katy was the reigning belle. I don't know how it happened, but happen it did, and Juno's glory faded before that of her rival, whose merry, ringing laugh frequently penetrated to every room, and made more than one look up in some surprise. But when Mrs. Humphreys said: "It's that charming little Mrs. Cameron, the prettiest creature I ever saw, her laugh is so refreshing and genuine," the point was settled, and Katy was free to laugh as loudly as she pleased.
She did look beautiful, in lace and pearls, with her short hair curling on her neck. She would not allow us to put so much as a bud in her hair, showing in this respect a willfulness we never expected; but as she was perfectly irresistible, we suffered her to have her way, and when she was dressed, sent her in to father, who had asked to see her. And now comes the strangest thing in the world.
"You are very beautiful, little daughter," father said. "I almost wish I was going with you to see the sensation you are sure to create."
Then straight into his lap climbed Katy—father's lap—where none of us ever sat, I am sure, and began to coax him to go, telling him she should appear better if he were there, and that she should need him when Wilford left her, as of course he must a part of the time. And father actually dressed himself and went. But Katy did not need him after the people began to understand that Mrs. Wilford Cameron was the rage. Even Sybil Grey, in her palmiest days, never received such homage as was paid to the little Silverton girl, whose great charm was her perfect enjoyment of everything, and her perfect faith in what people said to her. Juno was nothing, and I worse than nothing, for I did go, wearing a plain black silk, with high neck and long sleeves, looking, as Juno said, like a Sister of Charity. But Bell Cameron can afford to dress plainly if she chooses, and I am glad, as it saves a deal of trouble, and somehow people seem to like me quite as well in my Quakerish dress as they do the fashionable Juno in diamonds and flowers, with uncovered neck and shoulders.
Lieutenant Bob was there; his light hair lighter than ever, and his chin as smooth as my hand. He likes to dance, and I do not, but somehow he persisted in staying where I was, notwithstanding that I said my sharpest things in hopes to get rid of him. He left me at last to dance with Katy, who makes up in grace and airiness what she lacks in knowledge. Once upon the floor, she did not lack for partners, but, I verily believe, danced every set, growing prettier and fairer as she danced, for hers is a complexion which does not get red and blowsy with exercise.
Mark Ray was there, too, and I saw him smile comically when Katy met the people with that bow she was making at the time he came so suddenly upon us. Mark is a good fellow, and I really think we have him to thank in a measure for Katy's successful _début_. He was the first to take her from Wilford, walking with her up and down the hall by way of reassuring her, and once as they passed me I heard her say:
"I feel so timid here—so much afraid of doing something wrong—something countrified."
"Never mind," he answered. "Act yourself just as you would were you at home in Silverton, where you are known. That is far better than affecting a manner not natural to you."
After that Katy brightened wonderfully. The stiffness which at first was perceptible passed off, and she was Katy Lennox, queening it over all the city belles, who, because she was married, would not be jealous—drawing after her a host of gentlemen, and between the sets holding a miniature court at one end of the room, where the more desirable of the guests crowded around; flattering her until her little head ought to have been turned if it was not. To do her justice, she bore her honors well, and when we were in the carriage, and father complimented her upon her success, she only said:
"If I pleased you all I am glad."
So many calls as we had the next day, and so many invitations as there are now on our table for Mrs. Wilford Cameron, while our opera box between the scenes is packed with beaus, until one would suppose Wilford might be jealous; but Katy takes it all so quietly and modestly, seeming only gratified for his sake, that I really believe he enjoys it more than she does. At all events, he persists in her going, even when she would rather stay at home, so if she is spoiled, the fault will rest with him.
February—th.—Poor Katy. Dissipation is beginning to wear upon her, for she is not accustomed to our late hours, and sometimes falls asleep while Esther is dressing her. But go she must, for Wilford wills it so, and she is but an automaton to do his bidding.
Why can't mother let her alone, when everybody seems so satisfied with her? Somehow, she does not believe that people are as delighted as they pretend, and so she keeps training and tormenting her until I do not wonder that Katy sometimes hates to go out, lest she shall unconsciously be guilty of an impropriety. I pitied her last night, when, after she was ready for the opera, she came into my room, where I was indulging in the luxury of a loose dressing gown, with my feet on the sofa. Latterly she has taken to me, and now sitting down before the fire into which her blue eyes looked with a steady stare, she said:
"I wish I might stay here with you to-night. I have heard this opera before, and it will be so tiresome. I get so sleepy while they are singing, for I never care to watch the acting. I did at first, when it was new, but now it seems insipid to see them make-believe, while the theatre is worse yet," and she gave a weary yawn.
In less than three months she has exhausted fashionable life, and I looked at her in astonishment, asking what would please her if the opera did not. What would she like?
Turning her eyes full upon me, she exclaimed:
"I do like it some, I suppose, only I get so tired. I like to ride, I like to skate, I like to shop, and all that; but, oh, you don't know how I want to go home to mother and Helen. I have not seen them for so long, but I am going in the spring—going in May. How many days are there in March and April? Sixty-one," she continued; "then I may safely say that in eighty days I shall see mother, and all the dear old places. It is not a grand home like this. You, Bell, might laugh at it. Juno would, I am sure, but you do not know how dear it is to me, or how I long for a sight of the huckleberry hills and the rocks where Helen and I used to play, Helen is a darling sister, and I know you will like her."
Just then Will called to say the carriage was waiting, and Katy was driven away, while I sat thinking of her and the devoted love with which she clings to her home and friends, wondering if it were the kindest thing which could have been done, transplanting her to our atmosphere, so different from her own.
March 1st.—As it was in the winter, so it is now; Mrs. Wilford Cameron is the rage—the bright star of society—which quotes and pets and flatters, and even laughs at her by turns; and Wilford, though still watchful, lest she should do something _outré_, is very proud of her, insisting upon her accepting invitations, sometimes two for one evening, until the child is absolutely worn out, and said to me once, when I told her how well she was looking and how pretty her dress was: "Yes, pretty enough, but I am so tired. If I could lie down on mother's bed, in a shilling calico, just as I used to do!"
Mother's bed seems at present to be the height of her ambition—the thing she most desires; and as Juno fancied it must be the feathers she is sighing for, she wickedly suggests that Wilford either buy a feather bed for his wife, or else send to that Aunt Betsy for the one which was to be Katy's setting out! They go to housekeeping in May, and on Madison Square, too, I think Wilford would quite as soon remain with us, for he does not fancy change; but Katy wants a home of her own, and I never saw anything more absolutely beautiful than her face when father said to Wilford that No. —— Madison Square was for sale, advising him to secure it. But when mother intimated that there was no necessity for the two families to separate at present—that Katy was too young to have charge of a house—there came into her eyes a look of such distress that it went straight to father's heart, and calling her to him, he said:
"Tell me, sunbeam, what is your choice—to stay with us, or have a home of your own?"
Katy was very white, and her voice trembled as she replied:
"You have been kind to me here, and it is very pleasant; but I guess—I think—I'm sure—I should like the housekeeping best. I am not so young, either. Nineteen in July, and when I go home next month I can learn so much of Aunt Betsy and Aunt Hannah."
Mother looked at Wilford then; but he was looking into the fire, with an expression anything but favorable to that visit home, fixed now for April instead of May. But Katy has no discernment, and believes she is actually going home to learn how to make apple dumplings and pumpkin pies. In spite of mother, the house is bought, and now she is gone all day, deciding how it shall be furnished, always leaving Katy out of the question, as if she were a cipher, and only consulting Wilford's choice. They will be happier alone, I know. Mrs. General Reynolds says that it is the way for young people to live; that her son's wife shall never come home to her, for of course their habits could not be alike; and then she looked queerly at me, as if she knew I was thinking of Lieutenant Bob and who his wife might be.
Sybil Grandon is coming home in April or May, and Mrs. Reynolds wonders will she flirt as she used to do. Just as if Bob would care for a widow. There is more danger from Will, who thinks Mrs. Grandon a perfect paragon, and who is very anxious that Katy may appear well before her, saying nothing and doing nothing which shall in any way approximate to Silverton and the shoes which Katy told Esther she used to bind when a girl. Will need not be disturbed, for Sybil Grandon was never half as pretty as Katy, or half as much admired. Neither need Mrs. General Reynolds fret about Bob, as if he would care for her. Sybil Grandon, indeed!
For nearly four months Katy had been in New York, drinking deep draughts from the cup of folly and fashion held so constantly to her lips; but she cloyed of it at last, and what at first had been so eagerly grasped, began, from daily repetition, to grow insipid and dull. To be the belle of every place, to know that her dress, her style, and even the fashion of her hair, was copied and admired, was gratifying to her, because she knew how much it pleased her husband, who was never happier or prouder than when, with Katy on his arm, he entered some crowded parlor and heard the buzz of admiration as it circled around, while Katy, simple-hearted and guileless still, smiled and blushed like a little child, wondering at the attentions lavished upon her, and attributing them mostly to her husband, whose position she thoroughly understood, marveling more and more that he should have chosen her to be his wife. That he had so honored her made her love him with a strange kind of grateful, clinging love, which as yet would acknowledge no fault in him, no wrong, no error; and if ever a shadow did cloud her heart, she was the one to blame, not Wilford; he was right—he the idol she worshiped—he the one for whose sake she tried so hard to drop her country ways and conform to the rules his mother and sister taught, submitting with the utmost good-nature to what Bell in her journal had called the drill, but it must be confessed not succeeding very well in imitating Juno. Katy could hardly be other than her own easy, graceful self, and though the drills had their effect, and taught her many things, they could not divest her of that natural, playful, airy manner which so charmed the city people and made her the reigning belle. As Marian Hazleton had predicted, others than her husband had spoken words of praise in Katy's ear; but such was her nature that the shafts of flattery glanced aside, leaving her unharmed, so that her husband, though sometimes startled and disquieted, had no cause for jealousy, enjoying Katy's success far more than she did herself, urging her out when she would rather have stayed at home, and evincing so much annoyance if she ventured to remonstrate that she gave it up at last and floated on with the tide.
Mrs. Cameron had at first been greatly shocked at Katy's want of propriety, looking on aghast when she wound her arms around Wilford's neck, or sat upon his knee; but to the elder Cameron the sight was a pleasant one, bringing back sunny memories of a summer time years ago, when he was young, and a fair bride had for a few brief weeks made this earth a paradise to him. But fashion had entered his Eden—that summer time was gone, and only the dim leaves of autumn lay where the buds which promised so much had been. The girlish bride was a stately matron now, doing nothing amiss, but making all her acts conform to a prescribed rule of etiquette, and frowning majestically upon the frolicsome, impulsive Katy, who had crept so far into the heart of the eccentric man that he always found the hours of her absence long, listening intently for the sound of her bounding footsteps, and feeling that her coming to his household had infused into his veins a better, healthier life than he had known for years. Katy was very dear to him, and he felt a thrill of pain, while a shadow lowered on his brow when first the toning down process commenced. He had heard them talk about it, and in his wrath he had hurled a cut-glass goblet upon the marble hearth, breaking it in atoms, while he called them a pair of precious fools, and Wilford a bigger one because he suffered it. So long as his convalescence lasted, he was some restraint upon his wife, but when he was well enough to resume his duties in his Wall Street office, there was nothing in the way, and Katy's education progressed accordingly. For Wilford's sake, Katy would do anything, and as from some things he had dropped she guessed that her manner was not quite what suited him, she submitted to much which would otherwise have been excessively annoying. But she was growing tired now, and it told upon her face, which was whiter than when she came to New York, while her figure was, if possible, slighter and more airy; but this only enhanced her loveliness, Wilford thought, and so he paid no heed to her complaints of weariness, but kept her in the circle which welcomed her so warmly, and would have missed her so much.
Little by little it had come to Katy that she was not quite as comfortable in her husband's family as she would be in a house of her own. The constant watch kept over her by Mrs. Cameron and Juno irritated and fretted her, making her wonder what was the matter, and why she should so often feel lonely and desolate when surrounded by every luxury which wealth could purchase. "It is his folks," she always said to herself when cogitating upon the subject. "Alone with Wilford I shall feel as light and happy as I used to do in Silverton."
And so Katy caught eagerly at the prospect of a release from the restraint of No. ——, seeming so anxious that Wilford, almost before he was aware of it himself, became the owner of one of the most desirable situations on Madison Square; and Katy was the envy of the belles, who had copied and imitated her, even to the cutting off their hair, which fashion may be fairly said to have originated from Katy herself, whose short curls had ceased to be obnoxious to the fastidious Mrs. Cameron, for Juno had tried the effect, looking, as Bell said, "like a fool," while Juno would have given much to have again the long black tresses, the cutting of which did not make her look like Katy. Of all the household, after Katy, Juno was perhaps the only one glad of the new house. It would be a change for herself, for she meant to spend much of her time on Madison Square, where everything was to be on the most magnificent scale. Fortunately for Katy, she knew nothing of Juno's intentions and built many a castle of her new home, where mother could come with Helen and Dr. Grant. Somehow she never saw Uncle Ephraim, nor his wife, nor yet Aunt Betsy there. She knew how out of place they would appear, and how they would annoy Wilford: but surely to her mother and Helen there could be no objection, and when she first went over the house, she designated mentally this room as mother's, and another one as Helen's, thinking how each should be fitted up with direct reference to their tastes, Helen's containing a great many books, while her mother's should have easy-chairs and lounges, with a host of drawers for holding things. And Wilford heard it all, making no reply, but considering how he could manage best so as to have no scene, for he had not the slightest intention of inviting either Mrs. Lennox or Helen to visit him, much less to become a part of his household. That he did not marry Katy's relatives was a fact as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and Katy's anticipations were answering no other purpose than to divert her mind for the time being, keeping her bright and cheerful.
Very pleasant indeed were the pictures Katy drew of the new house where Helen was to come, but pleasanter far were her pictures of that visit to Silverton, to occur in April, and about which she thought so much, dreaming of it many a night, and waking in the morning with the belief that she had actually been where the young buds were swelling and the fresh grass was springing by the door. Poor Katy, how much she thought about that visit when she should see them all and go again with Uncle Ephraim down into the meadows, making believe she was Katy Lennox still—when she could climb the ladder in the barn after new-laid eggs, or steal across the fields to Linwood, talking with Morris as she used to talk in the days which seemed so long ago. Morris she feared was not liking her as well as of old, thinking her very frivolous and silly, for he had only written her one short note in reply to the letter she had sent, telling him of the opera, the parties she attended, and the gay, happy life she led, for to him she would not then confess that in her cup of joy there was a single bitter dreg. All was bright and fair, she said, and Morris had replied that he was glad. "But do not forget that death can find you even there amid your splendor, or that after death the judgment comes, and then what shall it profit you if you gain the whole world and lose your own soul."
These words had rung in Katy's ears for many a day, following her to the dance and to the opera, where even the music was drowned by the echo of the words, "lose your own soul." But the sting grew less and less, till Katy no longer felt it, and now was only anxious to talk with Morris and convince him that she was not as thoughtless as he might suppose, that she still remembered his teachings, remembered the Sunday school and the little church in the valley, preferring it to the handsome, aristocratic house where she went with the Camerons once on every Sunday, and would willingly go twice if Wilford would go with her. But the Camerons were merely fashionable churchgoers, and so their afternoons were spent at home, Katy enjoying them vastly because she usually had Wilford all to herself in her own room, a thing which did not often occur during the weekdays.
There was a kind of peace to be made with Helen, too, Katy feared; for Helen had sent back the diamond ring, saying it was not suitable for her, but never hinting that she had drawn from Morris the inference that Wilford was not well pleased at having his wife thus dispose of his costly presents. Katy had cried when she received the ring, feeling that something was wrong and longing so much for the time when she could make it right.
"One more week and then it is April," she said to Wilford one evening after they had retired to their room, and she was talking of Silverton. "I guess I had better go about the tenth. Shall you stay as long as I do?"
Wilford bit his lip, and after a moment replied:
"I have been talking with mother, and we think April is not a good time for you to be in the country; it is so wet and cold. You had better not till summer, and then I want you here to help order our furniture."
"Oh, Wilford," and Katy's voice trembled, for from past experience she knew that for Wilford to object to her plans was equivalent to a refusal, and her heart throbbed with disappointment as she tried to listen while Wilford urged many reasons why she should not go, convincing her at last that of all times for visiting Silverton spring was the worst, that summer or autumn were better, and that it was her duty to remain where she was until such time as he saw fit for her to do otherwise.
This was the meaning of what he said, and though his manner was guarded and his words kind, they were very conclusive, and with one gasping sob Katy gave up Silverton, charging it more to Mrs. Cameron than to Wilford, and writing next day to Helen that she could not come just then, but after she was settled they might surely expect her.
With a bitter pang Helen read this letter to the three women who had so much anticipated Katy's visit, and each of whom cried quietly over her disappointment, while even Uncle Ephraim went back to his work that afternoon with a sad, heavy heart, for now his labor was not lightened by thoughts of Katy's being there so soon.
"Please God she may come to us some time," he said, pausing beneath the butternut in the meadow, and remembering just how Katy looked on that first day of her return from Canandaigua, when she sat on the flat stone while he piled up the hay and talked with her of different paths through life, one of which she must surely tread.
She had said, "I will choose the straight and pleasant," and some would think she had; but Uncle Ephraim was not so sure, and leaning against a tree, he asked silently that, whether he ever saw his darling again or not, God would care for her and keep her unspotted from the world.
It was a cruel thing for Wilford Cameron to try thus to separate Katy from the hearts which loved her so much: and, as if he felt reproached, there was an increased tenderness in his manner toward her, particularly as he saw how sad she was for a few days after his decision. But Katy could not be sorry long, and in the excitement of settling the new house her spirits rallied, and her merry laugh thrilled like a bird through the rooms where the workmen were so busy, and where Mrs. Cameron was the real superintendent, though there was always a show of consulting Katy, who nevertheless was a mere cipher in the matter. In everything the mother had her way, until it came to the room designed for Helen, and which Mrs. Cameron was for converting into a kind of smoking or lounging room for Wilford and his associates. Katy must not expect him to be always as devoted to her as he had been during the winter, she said. He had a great many bachelor friends, and now that he had a house of his own, it was natural that he should have some place where they could spend an hour or so with him without the restraint of ladies' society, and this was just the room—large, airy, quiet, and so far from the parlors that the odor of the smoke could not reach them.
"Oak and green will do nicely here," turning to Wilford, "but you must have some very handsome cigar sets, and one or two boxes of chess. Shall I see to that?"
Katy had submitted to much without knowing that she was submitting; but something Bell had dropped that morning had awakened a suspicion that possibly she was being ignored, and the wicked part of Helen would have enjoyed the look in her eye as she said, decidedly, not to Mrs. Cameron, but to Wilford: "I have from the very first decided this chamber for Helen, and I cannot give it up for a smoking room. You never had one at home. Why did you not, if it is so necessary?"
Wilford could not tell her that his mother would as soon have brought into her house one of Barnum's shows as to have had a room set apart for smoking, which she specially disliked; neither could he at once reply at all, so astonished was he at this sudden flash of spirit. Mrs. Cameron was the first to rally, and in her usual quiet tone she said: "Indeed, I did not know that your sister was to form a part of your household. When do you expect her?" and her cold gray eyes rested steadily upon Katy, who never before so fully realized the distance there was between her husband's friends and her own. But as the worm will turn when trampled on, so Katy, though hitherto powerless to defend herself, aroused in Helen's behalf, and in a tone as quiet and decided as that of her mother-in-law, replied: "She will come whenever I write for her. It was arranged from the first. Wasn't it, Wilford?" and she turned to her husband, who, unwilling to decide between a wife he loved and a mother whose judgment he considered infallible, affected not to hear her, and stole from the room, followed soon by Mrs. Cameron, so that Katy was left mistress of the field.
After that no one interfered in her arrangement of Helen's room, which, with far less expense than Mrs. Cameron would have done, she fitted up so cosily that Wilford pronounced it the pleasantest room in the house, while Bell went into ecstasies over it, and even Juno might have unbent enough to praise it, were it not that Mark Ray, who from being tacitly claimed by Juno was frequently admitted to their counsels, had asked the privilege of contributing to Helen's room a handsome volume of German poetry, such as he fancied she might enjoy. So long as Mark's attentions were not bestowed in any other quarter Juno was comparatively satisfied, but the moment he swerved a hair's breadth from the line she had marked out, her anger was aroused; and now, remembering his commendations of Helen Lennox, she hated her as cordially as one jealous girl can hate another whom she has not seen, making Katy so uncomfortable, without knowing what was the matter, that she hailed the morning of her exit from No. —— as the brightest since her marriage.
It was a very happy day for Katy, and when she first sat down to dinner in her own handsome home her face shone with a joy which even the presence of her mother-in-law could not materially lessen. She would rather have been alone with Wilford, it is true, but as her choice was not consulted she submitted cheerfully, proudly taking her rightful place at the table, and doing the honors so well that Mrs. Cameron, in speaking of it to her daughters, acknowledged that Wilford had little to fear if Katy always appeared as much at ease as she did that day. A thought similar to this passed through the mind of Wilford, who was very observant of such matters, and that night, after his mother was gone, he warmly commended Katy, but spoiled the pleasure his commendation would have given by telling her next, as if one thought suggested the other, that Sybil Grandon had returned, that he saw her on Broadway, accepting her invitation to a seat in her carriage which brought him to his door. She had made many inquiries concerning Katy, he said, expressing a great curiosity to see her, and saying that as she drove past the house that morning, she was strongly tempted to waive all ceremony and run in, knowing she should be pardoned for the sake of Auld Lang Syne, when she was privileged to take liberties with the Camerons. All this Wilford repeated to Katy, but he did not tell her how at the words Auld Lang Syne, Sybil had turned her fine eyes upon him with an expression which made him color, for he knew she was referring to the time when her name and his were always coupled together.
Wilford would not have exchanged Katy for a dozen Sybils, but there was about the latter a flash and sparkle very fascinating to most men, and Wilford felt himself so much exhilarated in her society that he half regretted leaving it, wishing as he did so that in some things Katy was more like the brilliant woman of the world, who, flashing upon him her most bewitching smile, leaned back in her handsome carriage with a careless, easy abandon, while he ran up the steps of his own dwelling, where Katy waited for him. In this state of mind her achievement at the dinner table was exceedingly gratifying. Sybil herself could not have done better. But alas, there were many points where Katy fell far below this standard; so after speaking of Sybil's inquiries for his wife, he went on to talk of Sybil herself, telling how much she was admired and how superior she was to the majority of ladies whom Katy had met, adding that he felt more anxious that Katy should make a favorable impression upon her than any one of his acquaintance, as she would be sure to note the slightest departure from her code of etiquette. How Katy hated the words etiquette, and style and manner, wishing they might be stricken from the language, and how she dreaded this Sybil Grandon, who seemed to her like some ogress, instead of the charming creature she was described to be. Thoughts of the secret picture and the dread fancy did not trouble her now, for she was sure of Wilford's love; but she had sometimes dreaded the return of Sybil Grandon, and now that she had come, she felt for a moment a chill at her heart and a terror at meeting her which she tried to shake off, succeeding at last, for perfect faith in Wilford was to her a strong shield of defense, and her only trouble was a fear lest she should fall in the scale of comparison which might be instituted between herself and Mrs. Grandon.
Nestling close to Wilford, she said, half earnestly, half playfully:
"I will try not to disgrace you when I meet this Mrs. Grandon."
Then, anxious to change the conversation to something more agreeable to herself, she began to talk of their house, thus diverting her own mind from Sybil Grandon, who after a few days ceased to be a bugbear, Wilford never mentioning her again, and Katy only hearing of her through Juno and Bell, the first of whom went into raptures over her, while the latter styled her a silly, coquettish widow, who would appear much better to have worn her weeds a little longer, and not throw herself quite so soon into the market. That she should of course meet her some time, Katy knew, but she would not distress herself till the time arrived, and so she dismissed her fears, or rather lost them in the excitement of her new dignity as mistress of a house.
In her girlhood Katy had evinced a taste for housekeeping, which now developed so rapidly that she won the respect of all the servants, from the man who answered the bell to the accomplished cook, hired by Mrs. Cameron, and who, like most accomplished cooks, was sharp and cross and opinionated, but who did not find it easy to scold the blithe little woman who every morning came flitting into her dominions, not asking what they would have for dinner, as she had been led to suppose she would, but ordering it with a matter of course air, which amused the usually overbearing Mrs. Phillips. But when the little lady, rolling her sleeves above her dimpled elbows and donning the clean white apron which Phillips was reserving for afternoon, announced her intention of surprising Wilford, who was very particular about dessert, with a pudding such as Aunt Betsy used to make, there were signs of rebellion, Phillips telling her bluntly that she couldn't be bothered—that it was not a lady's place in the kitchen under foot—that the other Mrs. Cameron never did it, and would not like it in Mrs. Wilford.
For a moment Katy paused and looked straight at Mrs. Phillips; then without a word of reply to that worthy's remarks, said, quietly: "I have only six eggs here—the receipt is ten. Bring me four more, please."
There was something in the blue eyes which compelled obedience, and the dessert progressed without another word of remonstrance. But when the door bell rang, and word came down that there were ladies in the parlor—Juno with some one else—Phillips would not tell her of the flour on her hair; and as Katy, after casting aside her apron and putting down her sleeves, only glanced hastily at herself in the hall mirror as she passed it, she appeared in the parlor with this mark upon her curls, and greatly to her astonishment was presented to "Mrs. Sybil Grandon," Juno explaining, that as Sybil was very anxious to see her, and they were passing the house, she had presumed upon her privilege as a sister and brought her in.
For a moment the room turned dark, and Katy felt that she was falling; it was so sudden, so unexpected, and she so unprepared; but Sybil's familiar manner soon quieted her, and she was able at last to look fully at her visitor, finding her not as handsome as she expected, nor as young but in all other points she had not perhaps been exaggerated. Cultivated and self-possessed, she was still very pleasing in her manner, making Katy feel wholly at ease by a few well-timed compliments, which had the merit of seeming genuine, so perfect was she in the art of deception, practicing it with so much skill that few saw through the mask, and knew it was put on.
To Katy she was very gracious, admiring her house, admiring herself, admiring everything, until Katy wondered how she could ever have dreaded to meet her, laughing and chatting as familiarly as if the fashionable woman were not criticising every movement and every act and every feature of her face, wondering most at the flour upon her hair!
Juno wondered, too, but knowing Katy's domestic propensities, suspected the truth, and feigning some errand with Phillips, she excused herself for a moment and descended to the kitchen, where she was not long in hearing about Katy's queer ways, coming where she was not needed, and making country puddings after some heathenish aunt's rule.
"Was it Aunt Betsy?" Juno asked, her face betokening its disgust when told that she was right, and her manner on her return to the parlor very frigid toward Katy, who had discovered the flour on her hair, and was laughing merrily over it, telling Sybil how it happened—how cross Phillips was—and lastly, how "our folks" often made the pudding, and that was why she wished to surprise Wilford with it.
There was a sarcastic smile upon Sybil's lip as she wished Mrs. Cameron success and then departed, leaving Katy to finish the dessert, which, when ready for the table, was certainly very inviting, and would have tempted the appetite of any man who had not been listener to matters not wholly conducive to his peace of mind.
On his way home Wilford had stopped at his father's, finding Juno, who had just come in, relating the particulars of her call upon his wife, and as she did not think it necessary to stop for him, he heard of Katy's misdoings, and her general appearance in the presence of Sybil Grandon, whom she entertained with a description of "our folks'" favorite dishes, together with Aunt Betsy's receipts. This was the straw too many, and since his marriage Wilford had not been as angry as he was while listening to Juno, who reported Sybil's verdict on his wife, "A domestic little body and very pretty."
Wilford did not care to have his wife domestic; he did not marry her for that, and in a mood anything but favorable to the light, delicate dessert Katy had prepared with so much care, he went to his luxurious home, where Katy ran as usual to meet him, her face brimming with the surprise she had in store for him, and herself so much excited that she did not at first observe the cloud upon his brow, as he moodily answered her rapid questions. But when the important moment arrived, and the dessert was brought on, he promptly declined it, even after her explanation that she made it herself, just to gratify and astonish him, urging him to try it for the sake of pleasing her, if nothing more. But Wilford was not hungry then, and even had he been, he would have chosen anything before a pudding formed from a receipt of Betsy Barlow, so the dessert was untasted even by Katy herself, who, knowing now that something had gone wrong, sat fighting back her tears until the servant left the room, when she timidly asked: "What is it, Wilford? What makes you seem so—". She would not say cross, and substituted "queer," while Wilford plunged at once into the matter by saying, "Juno tells me she called here this afternoon with Mrs. Grandon."
"Yes, I forgot to mention it," Katy answered, feeling puzzled to know why that should annoy her husband; but his next remarks disclosed the whole, and Katy's tears flowed fast as Wilford asked what he supposed Mrs. Grandon thought, to see his wife looking as if fresh from the flour barrel, and to hear her talk about Aunt Betsy's receipts and our folks. "That is a bad habit of yours, Katy," he continued, "one of which I wish you to break yourself, if possible. I have never spoken to you directly on the subject before, but it annoys me exceedingly, inasmuch as it is an indication of low breeding."
There was no answer from Katy, whose heart was too full to speak, and so Wilford went on: "Our servants were selected by mother with a direct reference to your youth and inexperience, and it is not necessary for you to frequent the kitchen, or, indeed, to go there oftener than once a week. Let them come to you for orders, not you go to them. Neither need you speak quite so familiarly to them, treating them almost as if they were your equals. Try to remember your true position, that whatever you may have been you are now Mrs. Wilford Cameron, equal to any lady in New York."
They were in the library now, and the soft May breeze came stealing through the open window, stirring the fleecy curtain and blowing across the tasteful bouquet which Katy had arranged; but Katy was too wretched to care for her surroundings. It was the first time Wilford had ever spoken to her just in this way, and his manner hurt her more than his words, making her feel as if she were an ignorant, ill-bred creature, whom he had raised to a position she did not know how to fill. It was cruel thus to repay her attempts to please, and so, perhaps, Wilford thought, as with folded arms he sat looking at her weeping so bitterly upon the sofa; but he was too indignant to make any concession then, and he suffered her to weep in silence until he remembered that his mother had requested him to bring her around that evening, as they were expecting a few of Juno's friends, and among them Sybil Grandon. If Katy went he wished her to look her best, and he unbent so far as to try to check her tears. But Katy could not stop, and she wept so passionately that Wilford's anger subsided, leaving only tenderness and pity for the wife he tried so hard to soothe, telling her he was sorry, and suing for forgiveness, until the sobbing ceased, and Katy lay passively in his arms, her face so white and the dark rings about her eyes showing so distinctly that Wilford did not press her when she declined his mother's invitation. He could go, she said, urging so many reasons why he should, that, for the first time since their marriage, he left her alone, and went to where Sybil Grandon smiled her sunniest smile, and put forth her most persuasive powers to keep him at her side, expressing so much regret that he did not bring his charming little wife, who completely won her heart, she was so childlike and simple-hearted, laughing so merrily when she discovered the flour on her hair, but not seeming to mind it in the least. Really, she did not see how it happened that he was fortunate enough to win such a domestic treasure. Where did he find her?
If Sybil Grandon meant this to be complimentary it was not received as such, Wilford almost grating his teeth with vexation as he listened to it, and feeling doubly mortified with Katy, whom he found waiting for him, when at a late hour he left the society of Sybil Grandon and repaired to his home.
To Katy the time of his absence had seemed an age, for her thoughts had been busy with the past, gathering up every incident connected with her married life since she came to New York, and deducing from them the conclusion that "Wilford's folks" were ashamed of her, and that Wilford himself might perhaps become so, if he were not already. That would be worse than death itself, and the darkest hours she had ever known were those she spent alone that night, sobbing so violently as to bring on a racking headache, which showed itself upon her face and touched Wilford at once.
Sybil Grandon was forgotten in those moments of contrition, when he ministered so tenderly to his suffering wife, whom he felt that he had wronged. But somehow he could not tell her so then. It was not natural for him to confess his errors. There had already been a struggle between his duty and his pride when he had done so, and now the latter conquered, especially as Katy, grown more calm, began to take the censure to herself, lamenting her shortcomings, and promising to do better, even to the imitating of Sybil Grandon, if that would make him forget the past and love her as before.
Wilford could accord forgiveness far more graciously than he could ask it, and so peace was restored again, and Katy's face next day looked bright and happy when seen in her new carriage, which took her down Broadway to Stewart's, where she encountered Sybil Grandon, and with her Juno Cameron.
From the latter Katy instinctively shrank, but she could not resist the former, who greeted her so familiarly that Katy readily forgave her the pain of which she had been the cause, and could even speak of her to Wilford without a pang when he next came home to dinner. Still she could not overcome her dread of meeting her, and she grew more and more averse to mingling in society, where she might do many things to mortify her husband or his family, and thus provoke a scene she hoped never again to pass through.
"Oh, if Helen were only here," she thought, as she began to experience a sensation of loneliness she had never felt before.
But Helen was not there, nor yet coming there at present. One word from Wilford had settled that, convincing Katy that it was better to wait until the autumn, inasmuch as they were going so soon to Saratoga and Newport, which Katy had so much wished to visit, but from which she now shrank, especially after she knew that Mrs. Cameron and Juno were to be of the party, and probably Sybil Grandon. Katy did not dislike the latter, but she was never quite easy in her presence, and was conscious of appearing to disadvantage whenever they were together, while she could not deny to herself that since Sybil's return Wilford had not been quite the same as before. In company he was more attentive than ever, but at home he was sometimes moody and silent, while Katy strove in vain to ascertain the cause.
They were not as happy in the new home as she had expected to be, but the fault did not lie with Katy. She performed well her part, and more, taking upon her young shoulders the whole of the burden which her husband should have helped her bear. Housekeeping far more than boarding brings out a husband's nature, for whereas in the latter case one rightfully demands the services for which he pays, in the former he is sometimes expected to do and think, and even wait upon himself. But this was not Wilford's nature. The easy, indolent life he had led so long as a petted son of a partial mother unfitted him for care, and he was as much a boarder in his own home as he had ever been in the hotels in Paris, thoughtlessly requiring of Katy more than he should have required, so that Bell was not far from right when in her journal she described her sister-in-law as "a little servant whose feet were never supposed to be tired, and whose wishes were never consulted." It is true Bell had put it rather strongly, but the spirit of what she said was right, Wilford seldom considering Katy, or allowing her wishes to interfere with his own plans, while accustomed to every possible attention from his mother, he exacted the same from his wife, whose life was not one of unmixed happiness, notwithstanding that every letter home bore assurance to the contrary.
The last days of June had come, and Wilford was beginning to make arrangements for removing Katy from the city before the warmer weather. To this he had been urged by Mark Ray's remarking that Katy was not looking as well as when he first saw her, one year ago, "She had grown thin and pale," he said. "Had Wilford remarked it?"
Wilford had not. She complained much of headache; but that was only natural. Still he wrote to the Mountain House that afternoon to secure rooms for himself and wife, and then at an earlier hour than usual went home to tell her of the arrangement. Katy was out shopping, Esther said, and had not yet returned, adding: "There is a note for her upstairs, left by a woman who insisted on seeing the house, until I took her over it, showing her every room."
"A strange woman went over my house in Mrs. Cameron's absence! Who was it?" Wilford asked, hastily, visions of Helen, or possibly Aunt Betsy, rising before his mind.
"She said she was a friend of Mrs. Cameron, and that she knew she would allow the liberty," Esther replied, thus confirming Wilford in his suspicions that some country acquaintance had thrust herself upon them, and hastening up to Katy's room, where the note was lying, he took it up and examined the superscription, examined it closely, holding it up to the light full a minute, and forgetting to open it in his perplexity and the train of thought it awakened.
"They are singularly alike," he said, and still holding the note in his hand he went downstairs to the library, and opening a drawer of his writing desk, which was always kept locked, he took from it a picture and a bit of soiled paper, on which was written: "I am not guilty, Wilford, and God will never forgive the wrong you have done to me."
There was no name or date, but Wilford needed neither, for he knew well whose hand had penned those lines, and he sat looking at them, comparing them at last with the "Mrs. Wilford Cameron" which the strange woman had written. Then opening the note, he read that, having returned to New York, and wishing employment either as seamstress or dressmaker, Marian Hazelton had ventured to call upon Mrs. Cameron, remembering her promise to give her work if she should desire it. The note concluded by saying: